Page 21 of Hard Ride
To face that part of me, perhaps. To overcome it.
“Yes, Sir,” I say eventually.
His eyes narrow as if he’s displeased with my tone, but he must have decided to let it go, because then he says, “Take your clothes off for me, sub. Do it slowly, then fold them neatly, and put them on the table near the door.”
Get naked. Okay, so that’s easy. I can do that, and it’s not as if he hasn’t seen my body before. Sure, it’s been ten years, so I won’t look the same as I did at nineteen, but too bad. He can deal.
I step out of my shoes, my pulse accelerating no matter what I tell myself about how ridiculous this is, then shrug out of my jacket. The shirt is next, and I undo the buttons, my fingers fumbling.
“Slowly, sub,” Tate says. “I won’t tell you again.”
I grit my teeth at the order but try to slow down as I continue with the buttons. Only to have his hand suddenly cover both of mine. The shock of heat at his bare skin sends my heartbeat skyrocketing, and I freeze like a doe under the gaze of a lion.
“What do you say?” he asks softly.
I look up at him. “W-what do you mean?”
His gaze holds me trapped, the look in his eyes making goosebumps rise all over my skin. Fuck, he’s so sexy I can’t stand it. “When I give you an order, sub,” he says, “You need to reply ‘yes, Sir. ’”
Okay, God. “Yes, Sir,” I say.
Again, he gives me an assessing glance but then takes his hand away and nods. “Continue.”
This time I remember to reply, “Yes, Sir.”
He steps back, his arms folded over his chest, watching me.
It’s difficult to undo the rest of my buttons with him looking at me like that, but I manage it. Then I take my shirt off, slip my skirt down, and carefully fold both of them. Standing in my underwear in front of Tate feels more exposing than I thought it would, my skin prickling and tightening as his gaze roves over me. But I don’t let myself think about it too much as I take off my bra and step out of my underwear. Being naked is even more exposing. There’s no way I can hide the hardening of my nipples, and he’ll know exactly why they’re hard, because it’s not cold in the room.
Trying not to shake, I carry my stack of clothes over to the small console table by the door and put them down.
“Come here, sub,” Tate orders.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, moving over to where he’s standing. I want to hold his gaze, show him that I’m not bothered by my nakedness or any of this, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. The lines of his rough, handsome face are too hard, and his gaze is too intense, too fierce.
It reminds me of ten years ago, of how sometimes, when he looked at me, I had the sense that he wanted more than I was giving him, but I didn’t understand what more he wanted. I didn’t understand his anger at the world or why he was always so intense, and I still don’t.
Perhaps it was this that he wanted. Me being submissive to him. Even now, I hate the thought, and I hate that I can’t meet his gaze, either. It feels cowardly.
“Stand still,” he orders. “I want to look at you.”
“Yes, Sir.” I stare at the floor, trying not to let the fact that he’s studying every inch of my body affect me.
It’s difficult, though, as he slowly paces a circle around me, looking at me from every angle. I feel like a goat tied to a stake, and he’s a wolf, stalking me, deciding whether or not to eat me.
My skin gets even tighter, my breathing short and fast. I’m naked while he’s fully clothed, and I feel vulnerable, so I have no idea why the pressure between my thighs tightens.
“You’re a very pretty sub,” Tate murmurs as he circles me yet again, then pauses directly behind me. “But I think you know that, don’t you?”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself. “I’ve never?—”
A hand lands on my backside with a resounding crack, and I yelp in shock at the sting that follows in its wake. I start to turn, to shout at him for slapping me, but he’s suddenly pressing against my spine, one hand at my throat, fingers circling my neck, his palm pressed to my pulse, the other hand on my stomach. His fingers are splayed, and he’s holding me against him with irresistible strength.
I take another shocked breath at his grip and the furnace heat of his body against my back, at the prickle of wool from his suit jacket and pants against my tender skin. Already, I’m trembling at the possessiveness of his hold.
“That ‘no’ deserved a punishment,” he murmurs in my ear, the prickle of his beard joining all the other prickling currently moving like static over my skin. “You’re beautiful, sub. You’ve always been beautiful. And your skin is beautiful with the mark of my hand on it.”
I’m breathing sharply, deep panting breaths, and I’m sure he can hear me. The sting on my backside has faded into a subtle heat that somehow feels good, but I can’t work out why it would. I didn’t realize that pain would be part of this.
